Will this rain ever stop? I ask myself, and after a brief lacuna, comes the reply: Yes. When it freezes.

I know I’ve said this before, but let me put it to you again. What happened to evolution? We Irish all hate wet weather, even though we’ve been on this island for thousands of years. Why is this? Wouldn’t you think we’d have adapted by now? Are there Eskimos up there in the Arctic shivering and looking through holiday brochures? I hate this place. Why can’t we live in Jamaica?

I don’t think so. They just go on cutting holes in the ice, relaxing with a nice plate of seal blubber like Mammy used to make and running from Polar bears who, by the way, turned out to be Irish! Who knew? Even the bears couldn’t stand our miserable weather.

Fuck this rain, said the Irish brown bear. Let’s migrate to somewhere absolutely freezing and mutate into very pretty but fearsome predators.

Are there lost tribes deep inside the Amazon jungle saying It’s very steamy in here. Will we move to Arizona?

No. It’s quick, gimme a poison dart. I see a delicious monkey.

Is there some Alpaca farmer at the top of the Andes complaining? I’m fucking frozen. Maybe I should be farming sheep in Australia.

I think not. Yet here we are, all us Irish muttering away as we peel off our threadbare Gore-Tex jackets left over from the good old days when we could afford jackets. It’s either about to rain, it’s just stopped raining, it actually is raining or it looks like rain. If it isn’t doing any of the these things, that’s a very bad sign. Look out the window. Is the road flooded? No? Well that can only mean one thing: it’s frozen. Check immediately for burst pipes.